If Wishes Were Fishes
by ChiaroscuroEffect
Summary: Romano ran away from his problems, but they had a way of catching up to him. So did Spain. And that was the problem.


**If Wishes Were Fishes**

ChiaroscuroEffect

Summary: Romano ran away from his problems, but they had a way of catching up to him. So did Spain. And that _was_ the problem.

Rating: T

Disclaimer: Hetalia Axis Powers belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya.

Romano ran away from his problems, but they had a way of catching up to him. So did Spain. And that _was_ the problem.

What Romano still didn't understand was why Spain was looking for him. He left his cell phone on the kitchen table, and it rang, and rang, until finally the voicemail was full

Then the texts started coming.

He'd rented a vacation home, equipped with a little kitchen. The back door opened onto the beach, and the town nearby was just right, not too big, not too small, quintessentially Southern Italian.

The first week, he cooked. Tomato sauce, all different kinds, which he jarred, and labeled and set in a box, lasagna, minestrone, his homemade raviolis. Carne pizzaiola, pizza dough, until the freezer was full. He spent some time writing out the recipes, but gave it up when he couldn't read his own writing. Spain liked to complain about it sometimes, in a teasing way. He wouldn't have liked it so much if the notes Romano left him were suddenly typed, rather than scribbled.

Maybe Veneziano was a better cook than he was, but he'd be damned if his little brother could make a marinara as good as his.

"_In the current economic crisis, there must be cuts somewhere."_

The second week he spent just wandering around the town, sitting in the little church, going through the market, walking on the beach endlessly, aimlessly. He might have gone for a swim, if Spain was there. They would sit under an umbrella on a brightly colored towel and eat tomato sandwiches, and drink some sucky wine, straight from the bottle. Spain would smile at him, skin wet and shining. Maybe Veneziano would come too, and he'd probably drag the potato bastard with him. That meant the other potato bastard would come, and then the wine bastard, and then probably half the world, having a party on this remote Southern Italian beach.

He stared out over the ocean until it got dark. He came back the next day and did the same thing.

_Veneziano tilted his head. "I don't understand." Romano had been reading the documents on the desk, even though they were upside down. He'd had centuries of practice, though, and so he turned to his brother and frowned._

_ "I'll take care of this. Why don't you go make us lunch?"_

The third week, he slept. He spent hours and hours wrapped up in sheets and pillows, dozing until he was hungry enough to crawl downstairs and make something. Veneziano would have pitched a fit. Spain would have worried. Romano just slept, not so much dreaming as turning his body off for a while, saving his energy. It was strange, to be measuring time in hours and days and weeks and months, one precious month, when before he was lucky to remember anything less than a year.

_He glared at the man across the table. "Bastard. That's a terrible way to break that kind of news. Fucking cost-cutting effort, my ass."_

_ His boss stared back. "What would be a good way?"_

_ "Tch. To not do it at all."_

The fourth week, the news hit the papers. Romano heard his people talk about it as he wandered down narrow streets. But to be fair, the process had started long before his boss had sat him down.

Anytime someone thought that a nation was superficial, unneeded, unwanted, it took a little of them away. The official decision to support only one Italy was just the end of it. He'd prayed he'd have longer. More time to prepare Veneziano to be without him. More time to prepare himself, because he didn't want to die, or go away, or whatever he was supposed to do. More time to tell Spain-

Well. He probably knew.

Spain would no doubt step up the search for him now. Veneziano would be crying, and run off to Germany, the bastard, since Romano'd made himself scarce.

He could feel himself start to contract. Sure, South Italy was a scrawny brat, but he was also a landmass. But slowly, the sense of what was his was shrinking. He cried two nights later when it shrunk enough to lose Rome, but still, being away was good, it was right, because otherwise Spain would be here, watching this. He arranged with the landlord for him to contact one Antonio Fernandez if something happened, told him to tell 'Antonio' that the stuff in the freezer was for him, and waved off the man's tactful inquiries about his mental health with a smirk.

He was found on the fifth (_final_) week. His borders were down to a small circle around the town, ever contracting. The lady who sold him the cheap wine and a packet of sandwiches told him that a man had been asking around for him.

"Green eyes, brown curly hair, nice ass?" She giggled and told him yes, that was him. He thanked her and went on his way to the beach. Stupid Spain.

He was halfway through the first bottle of wine and his second sandwich when he felt the other man behind him.

"Hi."

"Romano." Spain's voice was soft, almost timid, and he sat on the sand next to the other nation. Romano stared out over the water.

"There's some sandwiches left. And a lot of wine."

"You should be resting."

"No point." He lifted the bottle in a salutary gesture. "It's going to be tonight."

"At least I was in time," Spain sighed gratefully. "Why did you run away?"

"It's what I do best," Romano mumbled. "And I didn't want this to be your last memory. And I couldn't take Veniziano fucking crying all over me," he added after a slight pause.

"I don't care about that," Spain said firmly. "I didn't want you to have to go through this alone. You're scared, and so am I, and…and…"

Romano silently passed him a bottle. Spain stared at it a moment before unscrewing the cap and taking a gulp.

They sat for a moment.

"All I ever wished for was to wake up to your cute round tomato face every morning," Spain said finally. "It's not fair."

"If wishes were fishes, moron." He tipped his head back, taking a swig from his own bottle. He'd had a lot of wishes too. Right now, he wished that he could think of a way to make Spain smile, because this felt too much like a wake.

"If wishes were…what?" He could have laughed out loud at the utterly familiar look of confusion on Spain's face, but he settled for shaking his head and chuckling.

"It's a…what the heck is it…a saying. 'If wishes were fishes, we'd walk on the sea.'"

"Roma…" And there was a catch in Spain's voice. "Roma, I don't want you to die."

He didn't have anything to say to that, so he let his head come to rest on the broad shoulder of the man who had sheltered him and loved him since he was a tiny child. Maybe it was all right that Spain was here, at the end of things. He didn't feel so afraid, now.

Spain took his hand, and Romano tried to pretend that neither of them was shaking, and they sat on the beach, and drank sucky wine, and ate tomato sandwiches, and waited.

A/N: So what actually happens to Romano that night when he loses his nation identity is up to the reader. I suppose it's possible that it's all a build up to nothing much and he just hangs around like Prussia, thereby ruining any cost-saving effort, or it's possible that he really does just disappear.


End file.
